She snorts as she reaches for his hand, tries to tangle her fingers up in his. Her eye is closed as she leans against him, even if she can't sleep; she's only focused on his voice, the smell of his skin, the warmth he puts out and the way she can just barely feel his heartbeat if she concentrates.

Molotov buries everything she feels, thinks only about the here and now, and not anything deeper.

"You think that," she teases, then sighs. "I can't say I have. Not too many targets out in space."